


Three Cigarettes

by Stale_Cinnamon_Roll



Series: Mithridatism [7]
Category: Z Nation (TV)
Genre: 10k-centric, AU - Altered 10k Backstory, Accidental Voyeurism, Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, M/M, Odaxelagnia, Please Don't Hate Me, Pre-Relationship, Set During Ep107, Sexual Content, That rating change ain't just for fun, Under-negotiated Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-15
Updated: 2020-11-22
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:15:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 18,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27019396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stale_Cinnamon_Roll/pseuds/Stale_Cinnamon_Roll
Summary: Grief and mourning are odd things, effecting everyone differently. Some push people away, other shut themselves down, and others still seek out whatever comfort they can find.With the truck on its last legs and his family falling apart, Doc does the only thing he can - give his loved ones some space to mourn. When he spots a sign for the Fu-Bar, he hopes it's the perfect spot to for them all to unwind and let off some steam.Now, where did the kid go? Doc swears he just saw him a second ago...
Relationships: 10K/Darren Cooper, 10K/Murphy (Z Nation)
Series: Mithridatism [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1442032
Comments: 32
Kudos: 51





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Citizen Z delivers a eulogy.
> 
> Then, Addy and Mack talk.
> 
> Next, 10k goes for a walk.
> 
> Finally, Doc hopes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note the change in rating.
> 
> Also, if you don't know who Darren Cooper is, don't look him up. Just meet him as he's introduced...

_Come back. Even as a shadow, even as a dream._

_\-- Euripides_

“Good morning, people. Welcome to the third day of the sixth month of the year 03 A.Z. If you’re listening to this, it means you’re still alive. So, congratulations. Or condolences. You know, whatever.

“If you’re noticing more despair in my voice than usual today, it’s because we lost someone special. I know, we lose people all the time. Getting your face chewed off by a Z is more common than making it to your next birthday. But this guy… This one’s worth mentioning.”

Clearing his throat, Citizen Z pulls up the profile.

“Charles Garnett, First Sergeant, Army National Guard Reservist, was an honest to God, real life, actual good guy. He fought for other people, not just for his own survival. And he did something that’s pretty much impossible these days. He gave people hope. Remember hope? Remember thinking that we might actually come out on the other side of this thing? Yeah. That. Sergeant Garnett died trying to give us a reason to hope. And for that…”

Taking to his feet, Citizen Z pauses, trying to keep his voice clear. Steady. Then, he lifts his right hand to his forehead.

“Sergeant Charles Garnett. On behalf of a grateful nation, or whatever the hell we are now, we salute you.”

Voice finally beginning to break, tears threatening to fall, he kills the feed.

Over the last few years, Citizen Z has written more eulogies than he’s been able to keep count of, their sorrowful recollection of a life given in service of humanity sealed away in the files of the dead. But this one? Sergeant Garnett’s? It had needed to be heard.

With this heart wrenching task now ticked off on his indifferent to-do list, he marks the Sergeant’s profile as deceased, then clicks it closed.

As the window flickers away, his eyes blankly drift over the remaining profiles of Operation Bite Mark. Seven windows for seven souls, but only six names and photos. He’s not stopped looking for it – the identity of that seventh surviving member. Without a face or a real name to guide his search, however, he hasn’t had much luck.

‘Ten Thousand.’ ‘10k.’ Male, Caucasian, black hair, approximately five foot nine inches in height, age estimated as late teens to twenty-five.

And that’s it. That’s all he knows. All he’s got to work with.

If the worst comes to pass, what kind of eulogy can he write with that? With how this ‘10k’ has volunteered to aid Operation Bite Mark, risking his life as one of the potential saviours of humanity, he deserves to be remembered for his selfless act. Citizen Z owes the brave young man that much.

Not like he’s able to do anything else to help them, seeing as he’s stuck up here in Northern Light. All he can do is what he already has been: to watch and record, the unseen archiver of a doomed and dwindling species.

Wiping the tears from his eyes, he feeds another futile set of blurry photos into his search algorithm.

Garnett has given so many people hope. With finding the identity of this honourable young soul, hope is about all Citizen Z has left to work with.

~*~*~

Addy gazes along the empty horizon, Mack still straddling the motorcycle idling behind her. They’d hopped on and zipped off to scout out ahead and see if there is anything that they could find to fix the truck.

“Nothin’ out here. No people, no gas, not even Zs. Nah, we gotta go back. There’s no help out here.”

“There’s no help back there, either.”

She turns and stares at him, at her boyfriend. Addy hadn’t expected to hear the blond say something so… So _direct._ Not so soon, anyway. The redhead has known that Mack has been feeling uneasy about this mission for a while, but he’s never actually gotten to the point of uttering it out loud. Another day or two, maybe, if Warren hadn’t came back to them by then. But not right now. Not when the others are depending on them.

“We have to go back, Mack. We have a mission. We made a _promise_.”

“No, we didn’t. _We_ never did. Addy, the only promise we ever made was to each other. To stay alive.”

“Look, okay, yeah. Maybe we didn’t say the words and we didn’t sign an oath, but… We all stand for each other. We don’t leave each other behind. Garnett came back for me when those cannibals kidnapped me. And now you want to leave Warren? She needs us. They all need us.”

“I just think… Maybe we would have a better chance on our own. Like in the beginning.”

“Mm-hmm. So, this is about the kid, right? About 10k.”

“Addy, we’ve been over this. He’s dangerous–”

“He saved my life–”

“But he didn’t save Garnett’s!”

She takes a step back, shaking her head. “What are you getting at…?”

And Mack’s face is firm, his eyes resolute. “You saw it, too. How quickly he took down that first guard after Garnett got shot. That kid was up there all along, Addy. He could have done something. But he didn’t.”

Yanking his helmet off, the blond man reaches out a hand towards her. A hand she trusts; a hand she takes with no hesitation. Their fingers entwine, his warmth seeping into her, a much-needed comfort.

“There’s something not right with him, Addy. Something he’s not telling us. Think about it. How could a kid survive on his own for so long? It doesn’t add up.”

And… Addy can’t argue with that.

At first, she’d thought that he was just awkward, a shy teen who’d been on his own a little too long. She’d thought that all it would take would be a bit of time and some friendly conversation to get him to open up to them; to get used to being around others once again. And it had worked, sort of. It had taken a bit longer than she’d presumed, sure, but it had happened. Thanks to the enduring efforts of Cassandra, Doc, and Garnett – hell, even Murphy! – 10k had slowly come alive before their eyes. Had become one of the family.

But now? With what’s just happened and hearing someone finally saying it out loud, she’s not so sure he had.

Because of those eyes.

She’s seen those eyes three times, now. This first, she hadn’t been surprised by: the day that they had picked him up, before they even knew his name. The second one had been a shock: a back alley in Philadelphia and a knife levelled at Murphy. Luckily, he’d come back to his senses before anyone got hurt, thanks to Warren. But this third time? It had taken a lot longer for him to snap out of this one, though part of Addy isn’t quite sure he even has. His eyes had been hard and wintery, his face closed off completely as he’d marched his way out of Province Town and up to the truck, swinging himself into the bed without a word. And there that cold grey had remained, no spark of life or hint of warmth until the next morning. Though even then he’d still kept a distrustful distance; maintained an unquestioned silence.

So, maybe Mack is right. Maybe it _will_ be safer for them to move on.

But…

“But we can’t just leave. What about Cassandra?”

Her boyfriend tugs her in closer, an arm wrapping protectively around her as she bumps her head down into his chest. “She won’t leave him behind, will she? I know we like her, Addy, but we have to let her go.”

“If what you say is true… We can’t leave her there, Mack.”

Her blond takes a deep breath, letting her words sink in; pondering them. After a few heavy heartbeats, he places a quick kiss onto the top of her helmet.

“…Okay, okay. You’re right.” He pulls away, shoving his own helmet back on and gripping the handlebars. “We’ll go back for her.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. We have to at least try. We own her that much.”

~*~*~

The kid slowly exhales, smoke curling through the air as he stands at the edge of the road, the dirt inches from his toes. The others are behind him, next to the truck. Or most of them, at least. Addy and Mack had taken off on that motorbike, though he hadn’t been paying attention to their reasoning.

The last two days have been… hard. Despite having so many people physically close to him, the kid might as well have been completely alone. Murphy had left him that night, had rejected his offer, his plea for help. The man has barely even looked in the kid’s direction since then, and most certainly hasn’t spoken a word to him. Cassandra has pulled away, too. And Doc. They scarcely speak to him now, either, only a scattering of words here and there, though that’s likely the kid’s own fault: he never replies. Of course, they’d stop trying sooner or later. But he can cope with that. It’s not like they’re all sitting in silence, their short conversations drifting across his ears to remind him that he’s not actually as alone as he feels.

No, the thing that’s hit him hardest is the cold. It’s not from the weather, spring quickly drawing to a close as summer is ushered in. This cold, it comes from their distance, from the lack of touch. No squeeze on his shoulder; no casual nudge on his thigh; no unintentional graze along his arm.

Nothing.

No warmth.

Just this empty, lonely cold.

He hadn’t realised how quickly he’d grow accustomed to their touch, nor how painfully he’d yearn for its return now it’s gone.

With a sigh, the kid flicks his half-smoked cigarette to the gravelly highway, not even bothering to grind it out under his heel. Because what would be the point? Not like there is anything left on this road for him to ignite; to burn away with his carelessness.

Tracing his fingers down his rifle strap, the coarse fabric comforting in its familiarity, the kid steps off the road. There is no voice calling out to him as his first step becomes a second, then a third; no questions reaching his ears as he strides further into the field, further away from the truck. Not that he expected there to be one. Hoped, sure, but since when do things go the kid’s way so easily?

The grass ebbs and flows with the breeze, a green and fertile ocean dancing around his knees. He could keep walking. Could pick a spot on the horizon and just… not stop. No one would call out for him, no one would ask him why. The kid would just fade from their lives as quickly as he’d forced his way into them. He doesn’t have his pack, the worn out and dull green bag still laying forgotten in the truck bed, but it doesn’t matter. His rifle; his knives: that’s all Ten Thousand would need to survive.

He slows, boots stopping just short of a white bloom, a cluster of flower spikes swaying amongst golden greens. _Delphinium carolinianum._ It’s a mid-spring bloom, the last of the petals on prairie larkspur usually wilting away before the height of summer. Suppose it’s got a month or so left, then. What day did that radio guy say it was? June third? Guess the kid has been accurate with his counting, his keeping track of days creeping by. That means he has about a month left, too, then. A month until his birthday. Until he turns nineteen.

He’d been planning to bring it up closer to the time, to mention it to Charlie or Murphy or Cassandra. He doesn’t know if birthdays are something that people still think about now, what with the Apocalypse and all. The kid knows that _he_ certainly hasn’t been celebrating it, those three birthdays spent alone with his memories. Memories of how he’d spent the last one he’d celebrated. Memories of how Pa had ruffled his hair and promised him pizza; how Jeff had kissed him as he wrapped the scarf securely around Tommy’s neck.

No point bringing it up, now. Not with Charlie gone, not with the cold distance, and not with the kid picking a place on the horizon.

These last few years, he’s infiltrated many groups, leaving each and every one of them behind. He’s strode indifferently with whispers lining his path, sauntered causally with the stench of death clinging to his clothes, and slunk through shadows as snores filled the air. Frack, he’s even turned away, aloofly ignoring a cowboy’s wave goodbye. Walking away is easy. It’s second nature.

But…

But he can’t do it.

His feet are rooted to the ground, the aching in his heart burrowing downwards, tendrils of his grief tainting the soil.

The kid cannot leave.

Because, if he does, then ‘10k’ – the one that Charlie had taken in, had believed in, had maybe even loved – will surely die. Or, at least, the idea of him will. Because ‘10k’ had never truly existed in the first place, had he? Just as the kid had thought that he’d killed ‘Tommy’ all those years ago, so too he believed that ‘Ten Thousand’ had met the same fate in Castle Point. But they didn’t truly die, did they? These days, nothing does. What he’d been so willing to call ‘10k’ had simply been pieces of his old selves haphazardly stitched together, shambling along as it dared to call itself whole. To believe itself to be human.

Tommy’s love for Charlie; Ten Thousand’s lust for Murphy. Tommy’s compassion for Cassandra; Ten Thousand’s wrath for that priest. None of it had been new and none of it had been ‘10k’.

The kid could walk – knows he _should_ walk – and that he could even let himself become ‘Ten Thousand’ again. But he won’t. He _can’t._ Because he’ll still remember Charlie. The man who had taken in a stranger without a second thought; the man who had sacrificed his own life so Murphy can get to the lab and make the cure; the man who had resurrected Tommy, burning back to life as a phoenix in his heart.

So, no.

He _can’t_ walk away.

Because walking away from this truck would also be walking away from the gift that Charlie has given him.

And while the kid is unsure of what he wants to be – what he’s _capable_ of being – he certainly knows what he doesn’t want to return to.

Turning back to the road, silent footsteps picking their way through the sea of gold and green, the kid knows that he’d used up all his remaining luck finding a man like Charlie in this fracking Apocalypse.

Even if he searches for the rest of his life, he’ll never find anyone who could care for him like the man he’s failed so irreconcilably.

“Hey, kid.”

He’ll never find anyone that could bestow such a gentle and loving touch, both tender and paternal in its warmth.

“Come on back over.”

His weary flesh will soon forget it, the protective heat of Charlie squeezing his shoulder, a large hand ruffling his hair.

“It’s time to head on out.”

And with Doc and Murphy and even Cassandra now keeping a distance, the kid supposes that that means he’ll just have to look for something else to keep him warm.

~*~*~

Doc crawls back out from under the truck, gratefully accepting Cassandra’s help up as his knees begin to complain even louder.

They had been forced to pull over, their radiator exploding in a cloud of steam and smoke. With Warren taking some time to mourn and none of the others knowing anything about vehicle maintenance, he’s done what he’s been able to. Spotting the leak in the radiator hose had been a bit hit and miss, what with his eyes protesting as much as his knees about being crammed in the dark space under the damn truck. Once he’d found it, though, patching it up had been a piece of cake. Cassandra had fished some tape out of the kid’s bag, passing it down to Doc before turning her eyes back to the field, ever vigilant in her distant watch over 10k.

The fix may have been quick, but it’s also temporary. This truck is on its last legs and they all know it. A replacement will be needed as soon as possible if they’re to make it to California. And if that replacement is gained by hook or by crook, well, so be it. Doing something bad can be a necessary part of life, especially now.

“How’s it looking?”

Murphy’s voice is gruff, glaring over at Doc like this is somehow all his fault. Though, as annoying as the old guy finds that, at least the convict isn’t pestering Warren anymore.

“Should hold for a while, but its not perfect. Gonna have to see if we can trade her in at a trading post or settlement or something. Though, she ain’t going nowhere unless we can get some water in that radiator.”

Between himself and Cassandra, it doesn’t take long to round up their bottles and start dumping in what little remains of their drinking water. Doc’s sad to see it go but they’ll get further in the truck than they would by foot, so hopefully they’ll find some more soon.

Hope, huh? Garnett always was big on that. His mantra in the early days of Blue Sky had been ‘ _plan for the worst, hope for the best_ ’ and, while it sometimes got on everyone’s nerves, they were always grateful to have someone who was looking towards the future with a cautious optimism.

The fourth bottle emptied, Doc holds his hand out expectantly to Murphy, the man gripping his steel canteen tightly. “Come on, man. We’ve all done ours. It’s only fair.”

Murphy shakes his head, folding his arms protectively over the bottle. “We need to keep some for the kid. He’s drinking even less than he usually does.”

Spinning away from the field, Cassandra strides towards Murphy, her face twisting in a harsh scowl. “Oh, so _now_ you care about him. Where was that this morning, huh? Or last night?”

“Don’t have a go at me, sweetheart. It won’t ease your conscience. Not like you’ve been doing anything for him, yourself.”

“ _Excuse me?_ ”

As Cassandra balls her hands up into fists, Doc knows he has to intervene. With Warren shutting them out, and Addy and Mack unlikely to come back soon – if at all – the old guy’s family is falling apart, the broken shards slipping through his fingers as he tries to figure out how to piece them all back together again.

Doc reaches out, squeezing her shoulder. “Cass–”

But she slaps his hand away, not even looking at him before pointing a sharp finger in Murphy’s face.

“You did this, Murphy. Not me. _You._ ” The man’s mouth drops open, words ready to pour out in his own defence, but the young woman doesn’t give them time to form. “Don’t you try to deny it. I saw you that night. I saw you leave the fire. You did something to him, didn’t you?”

“What are you–”

Her fingers grip onto his shirt. “ _Didn’t you?!_ ”

“Doc–”

She shoves him back into the truck. “What the _fuck_ did you do?!”

“Nothing! I did nothing! Didn’t even speak to him. I just…I just…” Murphy’s face drops, knuckles turning white as he grips his metal canteen tighter, something painful flashing through pale blue eyes. “…I walked away.”

Cassandra yanks her hands free of his grimy shirt, stepping back. Her eyes are still angry, their gaze sharp as she sizes up the deflating man. But, as fierce as her face may be, Doc doesn’t miss them. The tears forming in her dark eyes.

Finding some truth in the man’s words, she shakes her head. “Why did he have to pick you, Murphy? Why couldn’t he have picked someone else? _Anyone_ else.”

“I didn’t know, okay? Didn’t know that would happen to Garnett. Didn’t know that this would happen to Ten. I… I did what I thought I had to. What was best.”

“And you were wrong. You _broke_ something. Broke something precious. And you need to _fix_ it.” The young woman squeezes her eyes shut, those heavy tears finally falling. Then she turns, tugging open the back door of the truck. “He’s come so far, Murphy. He’s done so well. If he loses everything because of this, remember one thing.” Sliding into the seats, her watery eyes boring into the convict’s, Cassandra’s tearstained face freezes over. “It wasn’t _me_ who swore to protect you.”

And with that, she slams her door shut.

It’s a mess.

Everything is one big fucking mess.

But Doc can’t give in. Can’t give up. Can’t let himself lose hope.

It’s not what Garnett would want.

The old guy had known that 10k was close with the Sergeant, and that the man was fond of the kid in return. He’d known that the death would hit them all hard but… But he’d been too busy worrying about how Warren would fare. That woman is a compartmentaliser, not letting things bother her too much in the moment, instead pushing them to the side to be dealt with at a later, more suitable date. When those things have become too numerous, or something big happens, she takes herself away. She works things out in her head. And then she always comes back to them. Doc knows this, and he knows she’ll be okay if given enough time. And yet still he’d been more concerned for her than he had about the kid.

That’s why, as much as it pains him to admit it, he cannot agree with Cassandra. This isn’t Murphy’s fault alone. They had _all_ left Ten to look after himself. They have _all_ failed that kid. Even Doc himself has been treating Ten differently. As not just a counsellor but a former drug addict, too, the old guy is fully aware that sometimes taking a step back is the best thing to do. A step backwards one day can be the thing that lets you take two steps forward the next, after all. And with how hypervigilant – how averse to touch, no matter how gentle – the kid had been when they first met, Doc had decided that that should be the step back he takes. He’d gotten so used to casually touching the kid that it had been hard at first. Hard to not reach out for him, to not pull him close and try to soothe his pain.

Doc has never been the most paternal of people. Sure, he cares about those in his life, but as friends, as brothers and sisters. They way he wants to care for the kid, to make sure he grieves healthily, to make sure he comes back to them, to make sure he smiles again – the old guy knows it feels different to how he thinks of the others. Hell, he’s known it ever since the kid had first hugged him. This isn’t what Ten had wanted, though, and Doc had respected that boundary. Had held himself back. Had tried his best to prevent his own burgeoning attachment to the kid from taking that route. And okay, sure, he hasn’t exactly been very successful in those attempts, which is why he’s made sure to never let it show.

But, fuck, Doc knows how paternal Garnett can be. It hadn’t even crossed his mind until now about how Ten might have recognised that in the Sergeant. Might have let himself feel the same in return. Could they have been leaving him alone with a grief that has torn open those still fresh scars of the kid’s own father?

This is a mess.

A real fucking mess.

But Doc won’t give in. He won’t give up. And he most certainly won’t lose hope.

To every problem, there is a solution. One just has to be willing to work hard enough to find it.

With Murphy silently clambering back into the truck, Doc takes a deep breath, holding it for a count of four before slowly letting it out. Then, rounding the truck, his eyes seek out the kid. 10k had wandered into the field, probably after spotting a flower he likes or something edible to forage, a thought that tugs a fond smile to the old guy’s lips. Ten sure does like his plants.

But, as luck would have it, 10k is already making his way back to them, delicately picking his way through the grass, retracing the steps he’d taken to venture out, leaving only a single path sliced in green.

“Hey, kid.”

Doc doesn’t let that stop him from calling out, though, hoping that his voice will guide the kid home sooner.

“Come on back over.”

As much as the old man has come to adore this boy, he’s not looking to take the tender place that his father and Garnett hold in 10k’s heart.

“It’s time to head on out.”

Because he knows that isn’t what the kid wants.

“Fancy learning how to drive?”

Although part of him he will never admit to will go on hoping for it, regardless.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we are, a new story.
> 
> This chapter is a bit of a downer, I know, and the next chapter is gonna get a little weird.
> 
> Some of you may hate me for the extra relationship tag, but I regret nothing.
> 
> Okay, I kinda regret springing it on you out of the blue, but that's about it.
> 
> This chapter was hard to write - 10k was originally ment to be colder and more closed off in his scene but as I tried to write him that way, he fought against me with every word. Because of that, I have not only had to change this story, but the next one and part of the one after, too.
> 
> Sided note: in all my No Zombie AU ideas, I write Addy and Mack as a bisexual power-couple open to a third should they ever find anyone suitable. It may have leaked into this series, too...
> 
> There will be some art posted at the end of chapter 3.
> 
> Anyway, hope that you like it, and let me know what you think.
> 
> As always, take care and I'll see you next time.
> 
> <3


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Doc tries to keep an eye on everyone.
> 
> Then, 10k wanders off.
> 
> Finally, Murphy finds him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your comments and kudos - they give me strength!
> 
> Tags have been updated.

_I know all about time and wounds healing, but even if I had all the time in the world, I still don’t know what to do with all this hurt right now._

_\-- Nina Guilbeau_

Doc drums his thumbs on the steering wheel, a benign quiet filling the truck. The kid had turned down his offer of a driving lesson with a slight shake of his head, instead climbing wordlessly into the bed and pulling his bag tight to his side. The old guy hadn’t made a big deal of it, not wanting 10k to know how deep this silence cuts.

So, here he is, at the wheel, feeling more despair than he has since Black Summer. Warren and Cassandra are in the back seats, curled into opposite corners. Murphy is at his side, arms folded across his chest, cradling that steel bottle as he leers out the front window. 10k is out back, more closed off to the world than the old guy has ever seen him.

Doc’s chest aches, each heartbeat forlorn, breaths calculated in their illusory tranquillity.

His fingers lift, grazing his beard, scratching, scratching.

He’s supposed to look out for them. Supposed to keep them happy. Supposed to keep them _a family_.

He’s stooping now, sitting low in the driver’s seat, foot easing off the gas as he stares ahead. Stares at the branching crossroads stretching out before him. Stares because he doesn’t know which way to go.

Left? Or–

“Go right.”

Murphy’s voice is rough, little more than a half-hearted rumble low in his throat.

“Why right?”

And the man just shrugs, still glowering ahead. “Why not? Worked for me…”

So, Doc does. Not like he has any better ideas, himself. And dwelling on such things can be bad for his head – he needs to hold it together, not let himself spiral.

For his family’s sake.

It doesn’t take long to see the fruit of their labour, a confirmation that turning right had indeed worked once more in Murphy’s favour. A shoddy wooden post is stuck in the dirt at the side of the road, holding aloft a board. On it is a black letter Z crossed out in red.

“No Zs. That’s a good sign.”

_Hopefully it’ll let the kid relax…_

As soon as the first sign has been left in their dust, a second sign cheerily pops up. ‘ _Gun show. Today only_ ’.

“Hmm… Getting interesting.”

_Could help perk Ten up, too. Give him a distraction._

But it was the third sign that solidified the decision in Doc’s mind: ‘ _liquor_ ’.

“Liquor! Now you’re talking.”

Someone must really be smiling down on them from above because they are all overdue a stiff drink or six.

The old guy turns his grin on the man slouched beside him. “Murphy, we’re gonna have to let you navigate more often.”

With the old guy stepping on the gas, it seems to only take a matter of minutes for them to be rolling up to a makeshift parking lot, one little more a loose scattering of worn-down trucks and cars surrounding a modest cluster of buildings. After dealing with some armed guards and pulling up into a nice spot by what appears to be a bar, Doc clambers out, grateful to be stretching his legs again so soon.

Murphy steps up beside him, leaning back into the truck, the least amused expression Doc has seen him wear drifting across his face. “Guns and liquor. What could go wrong?”

“Someone say liquor?” Warren’s words are like music to his ears, the woman hastily sliding out the truck and kicking her door shut. Sure, it’s not the healthiest of things for her to focus on, but she’s talking again, which is a step in the right direction. And with the kid springing down out of the bed and peering around, those pale eyes lighting up with curiosity? Well, considering the other theme of this entertaining little detour, the old guy is more than positive that he’ll see a small victory today.

All happily armed and trekking down a short dirt path, they’re stopped at the show’s entrance. One guarded by a sleeping man in jean shorts, blazer, and a top hat, and a woman in a sleeveless white jean jacket.

Her voice a lazy drawl, the woman speaks up as they approach. “Welcome to S and S Limited, the finest gun show in the west. Entry fee is seven.”

Doc’s brows cinch in with confusion. “Seven what?”

The woman sighs, throwing him with a tired look. “Bullets. Oxy. Grams of whatever DIY super fun substance ya got.”

He scratches at his beard – might as well unload some of his lower quality goods, then. “Well, I think I got some crystal back in the truck. It’s the good stuff, too.”

“Back off with the toilet bowl cleanser meth,” the man in the blazer interjects, titling his top hat back to reveal his bearded face. A face Doc knows well. “We only take the genuine, vein splittin’, ‘take you right out of this beautiful Apocalypse and into a hell hole’ meth.”

Doc’s smile splits his face in two. “Well, slap my ass and call me Sally. If it ain’t Sketchy McClain!” The two old friends pull each other into a rough hug, exchanging heavy back slaps before they both pull away wearing identical grins. “How’d you get way out here?”

“We traded our way up in the world. Here.”

Trotting around the gate, Sketchy waves them all through, evidently waving the entrance fee at the same time. A proud swagger taking over his step, their old friend eagerly takes them on a tour of his new goods.

“You see, zombies, they move in mysterious ways. We were on our last legs when we came upon this truckload of sweet weaponry under attack. We had to give the former owners mercy. And in return, they gave us this wonderful vehicle with enough gas to get us here to Kansas.”

Guns, ammo, knives, even a machete or two: table after table holding all the weapons one could ever dream of, backed right up against a truck emblazoned with that crossed out letter Z they’d seen back on the road. As they get closer, Doc spies a greater assortment of weapons inside the truck, a haul prodigious enough to have a tight crowd of prospective buyers ranging from local hillbillies to gun nuts and even a military man. And it’s all up the kid’s alley, if that heart-warming spark of interest lighting up his eyes is anything to go by.

“Oh!” Sketchy slaps Doc on the shoulder, stopping the old guy in his tracks before he calls out to the figure manning the stall. “Hey, Skeezy! Look what the living dead dragged in!”

“Doc?! I heard you were toast back at Camp Blue Sky!” The scrawny man pushes his way through the small crowd, his customers soon dispersing to delve deeper into the gun show, the kid eyeing them up as they go. “Don’t just stand there. Get your ass in here! We need another sucker.”

“Bite me, Skeezy.” Doc’s chuckle is warm, fond. He’s missed these two and their antics, he really has. Seeing them not just surviving but thriving? Well, it gives the old guy a glimmer of hope. Hope that things are going to get better. That they can make it through this. That his family will pull back together. _Stay_ together.

“Hey, I gotta show you the new and improved Z-whacker.” His usual swagger in his step, Sketchy grabs a two-pronged fork from the table, waving it through the air with a bark of laughter. “Hey, speaking of Z-whacker, what happened to the girl you were with? Did she, er…”

“No, man. We’re still travelling together. They went ahead looking for help. Kinda thought they’d end up here.”

Casting a quick, questioning glance Skeezy’s way and receiving a short shrug, Sketchy shakes his head. “Nope, haven’t seen them. And I’m pretty sure I’d notice.”

Ignoring that comment, Doc frowns. Well, there goes that little sliver of hope. He casts a mournful glance back at his family, everyone looking as blue at the news as the old guy himself feels. Everyone but the kid, that is. 10k is still staring out through the crowds, eyes tracking the movements of those dispersed customers or sizing up random people’s weaponry or something. Which reminds Doc – he still doesn’t know how the kid fares with crowds of this scale. Even if 10k is a little on edge, that could still work out in the old guy’s favour. Ten will stick nearby and not wander off, allowing Doc to keep a close eye on him.

“Here we’ve got the latest innovations in zombie fighting technologies.” Ever the salesman, Sketchy quickly eases back into his pitch. “Small arms. Hot potato. Siege weapons. Brain obliterators. You name it, we got it. Just sit back, relax, and forget about the Apocalypse.”

Cassandra frowns, her disbelief more than evident. “Aren’t you worried about the Zs?”

Sketchy just smiles. “Look around. We’re in the middle of Nowhere, Kansas. We’re surrounded by hundreds of square miles of nothing but fallow farmlands. There’s no Zs here. Nothing for them to eat. They’ve all moved on to the big cities.” Trailing his eyes up and down the young woman, Sketchy’s smile drips down into a grin sleazy enough to warrant a name change. “Don’t you worry. I’ll protect you.”

But as Cassandra’s brows dip low, her lips curving into a deeper frown, Murphy moves. With a small step sideways, he plants himself firmly between the young woman and the scuzzy man she’s glaring at. While the convict doesn’t make the most convincing visual deterrent, a job for which their resident sharpshooter would be much more suited, his unhesitatingly protective gesture is at least enough to defuse Cassandra’s anger. At least Murphy isn’t holding the young woman’s earlier outburst against her.

“Yeah, but anyway, if one _were_ to come amble by, to say we’re prepared is an understatement, right?” Knowing when to back away from the hornet’s nest, Sketchy moves on. “Uh, over there is the Fu-Bar. Home to the finest and probably actually the _only_ corn whiskey and moonshine between here and the Mississ– Whoa, somebody’s thirsty!”

At the first mention of alcohol, a fire is lit under Warren’s ass, their mourning second-in-command taking off at a light jog towards the bar. After glancing over at the kid, Murphy exchanges a quick look with Cassandra, the young woman breaking it off with a short nod. And just like that, the man takes off after Warren, muttering under his breath about how someone has to keep an eye on her, make sure she doesn’t do anything too stupid.

Doc would be lying if he said he wasn’t jealous. The way that those three – Murphy and Cassandra and 10k – can quickly and wordlessly close ranks, always putting their squabbles aside to look after whichever one of them needs it most… How did they do it? How did they get the kid to trust them so fully? Doc would give his right hand to know. To get to be there for 10k, too.

As for Warren, there’s not much they can do but let her breathe; let her work it all out in her head then out of her system. In the meantime, he’s got more pressing matters to attend to.

“Listen, man. We need a new vehicle. Ours is dying a slow death. You think you can help us out? Y’know, for old time’s sake?”

To his credit, Sketchy at least pretends to think about it before answering. “No can do, my friend. I’m an entrepreneur, not a philanthropist. But, uh, there might be a way you can help yourself.” The conman throws an arm out, gesturing at a sign: ‘ _shooting contest, enter here._ ’ “Our first annual live zombie shooting contest.”

“What’s the prize?”

As the kid’s words ring out – well, it’s more of a croak, really, his throat dry and his voice unused. But anyway, as 10k speaks, Doc could have been knocked down by a feather. It’s so good to hear him again; to see him alert; present. The old guy would have preferred if the catalyst had been something a little more sweet, a little less violent, but as it stands, well, Doc will gladly take whatever he can get.

With a wiggle of his eyebrows, Sketchy turns towards his companion. “Hey, Skeez. Show our friends here first prize.”

Skeezy scrambles into the back of the truck, scuttling off into the shadows before he reappears, lugging a gun with him. A big gun, at that. A _really_ big one.

“Wow…” 10k bounces over to the tables, all wide eyes and familiar crooked smile, eager to get a closer look. “That a real fifty calibre M82 Barret?”

“Genuine.” Sketchy proudly smooths down his lapels, pleased as punch that he’s managed to reel the kid in with this competition of his, before turning to Doc. The conman clearly knows who carries the coin around here. He always has been good at reading those kind of group dynamics. “Plus, uh, we’ll even throw in a few hundred rounds of shells.”

As eager as 10k is, though, Doc’s not so sure it’s a good idea to get involved with one of the conman’s schemes. “Seems like a little overkill.”

“Yeah. But there’s a lot of guys who like their toys.”

They don’t need it, a gun that big. But… But this is the first time he’s seen the kid so animated, first time he’s heard him utter a single syllable since– …Since before their family started to fall apart.

“A lot of who might be willing to trade a vehicle for a sweet piece of steel like that fifty. You know what I mean?”

Dragging his eyes away from that intimidatingly large gun, 10k meets Sketchy’s questioning gaze. There is a dark weight in that pale grey, a sharp slice lifting the kid’s lips upwards. “Where do I sign up?”

_Guess that’s that decided, then._

It shouldn’t be a bad thing, this competition. 10k’s an impressive shot and a lot better equipped than most of those hillbillies crowding around here earlier. If they win, that’s their truck problem sorted. If not, well, at least the kid has had some fun, getting to blow of some steam while flexing his trigger finger.

Sketchy snorts at 10k’s eagerness, amused but clearly unimpressed. “You think you got what it takes, little man?”

And Doc isn’t having that; isn’t going to let anyone doubt his kid’s skill. “Our kid could kill a Z at fifty yards away with a rubber band and a paper clip.”

The conman just shrugs, not buying it. “Alright. Sign-up’s in the Fu-Bar. If you win and you want to trade it for a bad mama jama vehicle, you wanna talk to a guy named Wannamaker. Oh, and if you want side action, talk to Skeezy, here. But do _not_ bet against _that_ guy.”

Casting one last disbelieving look the kid’s way, Sketchy points over at a long dead truck. Perched on the edge of its bed is that military looking guy who’d been crowded around Skeezy’s merchandise earlier. The one in a white vest and green camo pants, now diligently cleaning his rifle.

“Darren Cooper. Ex Ranger sniper. Fifty confirmed kills in Afghanistan. Lethal as they come.”

Glancing back at 10k, Doc finds the kid about as far from disheartened as he’s ever seen a guy look. There is no worry in his eyes, no apprehension tugging at his lips or weighing down his brow. Instead, 10k seems more eager than ever, a fire lit deep down below that dark shadow in his eyes, lips tilting upwards with a cocky twitch as his tongue flickers out to wet them. Doc isn’t sure what to make of this expression or whether it suits the kid or not, but if he was forced to put a name on it, he’d probably settle on excitement. The kid is bound to have a lot of pent up energy, what with there being no Zs along the road for him to snipe. Now, not only has he found a prize he wants to claim, he’s also found himself facing some stiff competition.

With their path towards a new vehicle now revealed, they wander over to the bar. As he notices the kid still glancing back over his shoulder at the Ranger, sizing up his greatest threat, Doc has to ask. He knows he shouldn’t doubt 10k but with how things have been the last day or so…

“You sure you feeling up to this, kid? Think you can beat him?”

10k doesn’t even drag his eyes away, the Ranger having spotted him, returning the kid’s gaze with a steady one of his own. “I’ve taken bigger.”

Doc just sighs. He doesn’t have the energy for this, simply feeling grateful for Murphy’s absence – their crude friend does _not_ need any more ammo for his crass jokes. And anyway, the old guy has bigger problems to sort out before he brings up to the kid the importance of phrasing…

“Well, lets go get you signed up, kid. Then, we gotta find this Wannamaker guy.”

It doesn’t take them long to find the bar and join the sign-up line. Quite a few eager wannabe sharpshooters, by the looks of it. Not that most of them stand a chance, not with his kid entering. With a fond smile, Doc lifts a hand to pat 10k on the shoulder. But at the last moment, his hand mere inches from making contact, he remembers – the kid doesn’t like to be touched. As Ten eyes him up, his face unreadable, Doc smoothly diverts his hand, letting his momentum swing it up to scratch at his beard.

“Let’s hope they’ll take a busted-up truck for the entrance fee.”

As the line shuffles forward, a pretty young lady with a rifle on her back walks by, the kid turning to watch. And that young lady? Well, it seems 10k catches her eye as much as she did his, her slender brow quirking as she looks him up and down before heading off outside. While it’s been nice to see the kid coming alive once more, he better be mindful of how he goes about it. He’s gotten very close with Cassandra, after all, and that young woman is feisty – she won’t hesitate to put him in his place if his hands start to stray as far as his eyes…

With another applicant signed up and on their way, Doc and Cassandra shuffle forward, the old guy trying to figure out how to spin their truck as valuable enough for–

Hey, wait a minute.

Where’d the kid go?

~*~*~

Ten’s footsteps are silent as he deftly weaves through throngs of people, trekking back the way he’d came.

He knows he should feel bad about slipping away from Cassandra and Doc but there is something he has to do. Something they wouldn’t understand. Charlie’s family is in need, so _he_ needs to ensure he wins this competition; wins the M82. Then Doc can trade it for a new truck. One more reliable than the one they currently have. Walking is only beneficial if you have nowhere to be and no one to slow you down.

So, he needs to rid himself of this uncertainty.

It’s not his own skill that Ten is doubting right now, rather his own mind; his ability to remain focused; to concentrate. He’s only got one shot at this so he cannot allow himself to fail. Not this time. But unlike Warren, Ten doesn’t drink, so instead he’s slinking through these milling crowds in search of another kind of distraction; a different flavour of relaxation. One that will ease the tension from his muscles and steady the wavering in his hands. One that had stared back at him from across the field. One that had held his gaze until Doc had ushered them along.

He’s doing this to calm his mind, to improve his odds, and to look after these people in Charlie’s stead. If Ten happens to get something else out of it, well, that’s just a bonus. Nothing wrong with killing two birds with one stone.

Rounding that truck full of weapons and skirting around its browsing customers, Ten stops to gain his bearing. With this shop here, that would place his target over–

“Doc’s kid, right? You lost?” That scrawny man, the one Sketchy had called ‘Skeezy’, calls over, his head bobbing up over his patrons.

Ten simply shakes his head, already on the move again, his feet gently padding through the dry grass as he nears his first prize. And there, still settled neatly on the back of an old truck, rifle proudly grasped in hand, is his chosen distraction.

Ranger Darren Cooper.

That the man is handsome is easy see, though nowhere near so as Murphy. He’s of a much sturdier build, though, the thick swell of the muscles on his arms clearly discernible even at the distance from which they were first spied. There’s not much of a beard on the Ranger, little more than short stubble adorning his face, something that at first had disappointed Ten. As he draws in closer, though; as he sees how those toned arms shift, pulling taught the man’s well-rounded chest… To say that Ranger Cooper is strikingly built would be selling him short, and that more than makes up for the lack of facial hair.

With curious blue eyes watching his approach, Ten already knows his opening move: nothing. Because men like this? They are much more comfortable being the one to initiate, to start the conversation. Ten is just speeding along the inevitable for them, setting up the scene for whatever fantasy the Ranger falsely believes he’s about to fulfil. Because he doesn’t have time to wait around, hoping the muscular man would seek him out sooner rather than later. Not with the shooting competition’s start time looming over him.

So, without a word – without even a _glance_ in the Ranger’s direction – Ten perches on a crate at the rear of the truck, leaning to rest against the bed.

He doesn’t need to look back at the man – he knows he’s got his full attention, the soft clicking and tapping of the Ranger’s fingers as they check over his rifle coming to an abrupt stop. As a pregnant silence begins to swell between them, Ten idly gazes across the field, watching as people wander back and forth, many stopping to browse Skeezy’s wares. He’s had these scenarios start out this way enough times that he can even count down to when the game really begins.

_3… 2… 1…_

“Saw ya before by the store. Starin’ at me.”

_Right on cue._

Smothering the smile twitching at his lips, Ten leans back, tilting his head upwards to meet the inquisitive gaze of the man seated slightly above him. “Was checking out your guns.”

The Ranger’s eyes narrow, the spark of curiosity cradled in blue now kindled to a flame.

Keeping his own face carefully schooled, Ten gestures vaguely towards the expertly maintained rifle clasped in rough hands. “Bolt action?”

Those eyes never leave Ten’s own. “Helps me think. More time between shots means more time ta plan my next move. Bullets ain’t cheap these days.”

That’s a sentiment Ten can understand; one he used to share. The desire for more time to think, that is. When hunting, it’s the job of the hunter to take down their prey as quickly and efficiently as possible. If the hunter can’t do that with one bullet, then they don’t do it at all. That was before, anyway. It’s not exactly deer he’s hunting these days.

“Not much use against a horde.”

With a quirk of his brow, the Ranger sends a smile his way, amused. “If I’m close enough to a horde for it ta matter then I’ve got bigger problems.” Shifting his position, Ranger Cooper leans forward, his knee warm as it nudges against Ten’s side as he props his rifle against the truck, a symbolic disarming that is neatly mirrored by the younger man.

Inching slightly closer still, the Ranger’s gaze is steady and self-assured, though, Ten notes with a twinge of disappointment, not arrogant. “So… That’s _one_ gun accounted for. An’ I ain’t so sure my sidearm woulda been visible to ya.” With a quick wink, he reaches behind his back and pulls free a pistol. Skilful fingers make short work of demonstrating its safety, showing clearly the empty chamber and lack of magazine before passing it over.

The Ranger’s weapon is heavy in Ten’s hands, a solid weight comprised of black metal and a dark grey grip. The young man recognises it instantly, the gun’s design almost as iconic as the camo its owner wears. The Sig Sauer P320 is an impressive piece, able to be stripped quickly without tools, though it does possess one fatal flaw. The trigger is heavy. Heavy enough that, if the gun is dropped… Well, it might unexpectedly go off.

Allowing his smirk to tug mischievously at the corner of his mouth, Ten hands the Ranger back his weapon, their fingers lingering ever so slightly as they graze along each other. “Problems with accidental discharge?”

The quiet rumble of laughter is pleasant; musical. “Now that’s a problem I ain’t ever had. No gun o’ mine ever goes off ‘til it’s supposed ta, not with my amount of experience. As for the P320, ain’t gonna happen there, neither. No ammo.”

With a gentle hum, Ten turns back to pretend to watch the crowds, idly picking at a thread hanging from a glove. How much more time does he have? Should he push harder? Abandon his efforts? He can’t win that competition if he doesn’t even take part…

“What? Ain’t gonna show me yours?” As Ten arches a brow at him, Ranger Cooper lets loose that deep laugh, again nudging his side with a warm knee. “Your side arm, sweet pea. Any sniper worth his salt has one.”

Those amused blue eyes never leave him as he rummages through his pack, tugging the Browning free. Once he’s quickly slid out the mag and checked the chamber is empty, it’s handed over with little fanfare. As the Ranger looks it over, an impressed whistle teased out between pursed lips, Ten closes more of the gap between them, laying an arm down to rest on a thick, muscular thigh.

And he’s warm.

Cooper is so warm.

The heat starts to seep into Ten’s flesh, sinking down into aching bone–

“In remarkable shape for a piece this old. Lucky find out there.”

Accepting the gun back, it takes him little time to reload, check the safety, then tuck it back out of sight. “Had it since before.”

“Even more impressive.” Casting his own eyes over the crowds, Ranger Cooper sways that thick leg back and forth. Catching on, Ten decides to rest his arm down once more, the warm muscle flexing appreciatively under desperate– Under inquisitive fingers. “Now, out with it, sweet pea. You ain’t really wandering all the way out here just to get a good look at my piece.”

Ten smiles up at him, one all crooked and appearing open, letting some heat drift into his pale eyes. “Was hoping for a private show.”

The Ranger’s brows dip, a frown working its way across his face. “What, now? Ain’t long ‘til the competition.”

With a shrug, the young man pulls his arm away, standing up and reaching for his rifle. Once it’s firmly in hand, he turns to leave. “If you’re not interested–”

And a rough, warm hand encircles his wrist, stopping him in his tracks. “Don’t be hasty, now. Ain’t say I weren’t interested.”

Ten doesn’t even bother trying to bite back his smile, turning to face his ensnared prey as it slices across his lips.

_Got him._

“Have somewhere we can go?”

Scratching at his stubble, the Ranger looks around, pondering this little dilemma of theirs. Then, he nods. Grabbing his own rifle from its resting place, the man sets off at a determined pace, his boots crunching through the dry grass.

And behind him, Ten Thousand’s footsteps are as silent as ever.

The barn is dark, musty. Thin streams of light slice through the air, illuminating just enough for Ten see around him. The wooden walls are old and rotting, the ground little more than dirt compacted down over time. Old and rusted farming equipment piled down one end, long forgotten bales of hay lining the walls. Two rifles are leaning against a bale, a green pack resting on the ground next to them, folded silk scarf delicately enthroned on top.

Not that he’s looking at any of it.

Ten’s attention is much better spent on the man trapped against the wall.

The kiss is harsh, hungry, the Ranger not resisting once as he’s shoved back into the wood. This feeling of such a powerful body, years of training and fighting and violence sculpting every ounce of muscle, yielding so willingly under his touch, surrendering to his every whim…

Ten will never not find it intoxicating.

And he wants more.

_Needs_ more.

Those large, rough hands are almost bashful in how they drop to rest on Ten’s hips, making the younger man frown into the kiss. He’d been hoping for more, that the soldier would resist him, put up something of a fight. That delicious sweetness of men realising that they won’t win, of them casting their ego aside and showing those first few signs of submitting to him… He may be craving it, but it’s been too long since he last got laid for Ten to let its absence sour his fun.

He pulls back from the kiss, smirking as the Ranger gasps for breath and fights to force his words out.

“Wasn’t expectin’ that, sweet pea.”

“First rule of warfare.”

_‘Never underestimate the enemy.’_

The Ranger just smiles, amused but not mocking. Good.

Ten’s hands, smaller than the man’s own though no less coarse, slip from their tight hold on that white vest, sliding over to instead grope brazenly as those glorious biceps. The man continues to smile down at him, taking obvious pleasure from Ten’s attentions. Then, he flexes, the muscle pulling taut, tugging along his shoulders, his chest.

More.

Ten needs to see more.

“Name’s Cooper, by the way.”

“I know.”

Gripping the hem, he eagerly begins sliding the vest up, exposing a trail of dark hair winding over gently defined abs–

“Ain’t gonna give me yours?”

His hands pause. He’s always preferred to keep these things simple; keep them anonymous. It makes things easier. Stops them getting attached. Not like he can argue with this one, though. He doesn’t have a fallback, plus he’s working with a tight time limit.

“Ten.”

“Ten? As in the number?”

“As in Ten Thousand.”

And with that, he shoves the insolent clothing higher, the Ranger happy to comply, tugging it over his own head with haste. As the worn white fabric is peeled away to reveal his shrewdly chosen prize, Ten takes a step back to better drink the man in.

Lavish veins winding their way along forearms and biceps, drawing the eye up to broad and sturdy shoulders. Taut cords in the neck stretch downwards, caressing a prominent collar bone. Proud swell of well-developed pecs adorning a solid chest, twitching under an appraising gaze. And below? Oh, below lay those abs, gently defined as they crease their way across a thick waist, dipping down and out of sight, obscured only by a dense trail of dark hair and annoyingly still-present clothing.

Ten licks at his lips, salivating.

Lifting a hand up and pressing covetous fingers into hard flesh, the young man sighs. He’s missed this. Missed this so fracking much. Such a strong body, the strength evident in every flex and twitch. A body – a _man_ – like this one, forged in war and honed by victory… It’s one that easily surpasses his own; could effortlessly overpower him. But it won’t. Because this man has submitted his body to Ten, willingly given himself over for the young man to control.

From the swelling in the Ranger’s pants – the one becoming as obvious as his own – Ten’s attentions have not gone unappreciated. Far from it, in fact.

Those large, rough hands land back on his hips, a slight hesitation still in their grip, waiting for Ten’s short nod of approval before they allow themselves to latch on more firmly. The thumbs drift upwards, circling along the slither of skin quickly exposed by how they nudge at the hem of his shirts. The intent is obvious, the request clear, and it’s one he decides to grant. Ten makes short work of yanking his shirts over his head, tossing them over to his pack, his gloves quickly following.

And now it’s the Ranger’s turn to lick at his lips, to lean back and take in the body bared before him. A little braver now, more secure in the belief that their touch won’t be so harshly rejected or scorned, the man clasps Ten’s hips, eyes roving appreciatively over newly exposed flesh. “Gotta say, sweet pea, I’m more curious ‘bout the second rule right now.”

A grin carving its way across pink lips, the young man shifts closer, pressing his crotch firmly against one of those solid thighs. In return, the man groans, a deep and throaty sound, pushing his own hips forward and grinding gently into Ten’s stomach.

_‘Second rule of warfare: never handle a weapon you don’t know how to use.’_

Ten leans in, one hand gripping the back of the Ranger’s neck to pull him down into another harsh kiss, the other landing possessively on those alluring abs. And that second hand, ever confident in its endeavours, slips downwards, fingertips eagerly digging under a camo waistband. As the hand delves deeper, scratching its way down a guiding path of coarse hair to tease at swollen flesh, the Ranger shifts his grip. With a sharp tug, Ten finds himself pulled flush against the man, one strong arm looping around his back, rough fingers trailing up his spine.

The warmth hits like a wave breaking on the shore, crashing over him, washing him out into this sea of heat and musk, drawing a gasp from Ten. A gasp that provides an opportunity. An opportunity that the Ranger takes, licking his way into the young man’s mouth, deepening the kiss further.

The other arm snakes upwards, too, wrapping around Ten. Embracing him. _Protecting_ him.

And this heat. This human heat; this living heat; this heat that he’s _yearned_ for. It sinks through his skin and muscle, burrowing its way down into his bones, spreading out through his veins with every quickened heartbeat.

He should push the man away, should get away from whatever this is, should escape. Because a single seed of temptation has been sown, his own resolve starting to waver, and it’s not safe. Safe is maintaining dominance. Safe is remaining in control. Safe is not letting them see any signs of weakness. And he can’t be weak, he can’t let them in, he can’t ask for help or rely on anyone. Because he’s not meant to be around people. He’s meant to be on his own. He’s meant to be alone.

No.

Not him.

It’s Ten Thousand who’s meant to be alone.

Was _made_ to be alone.

As the heat begins to overwhelm him; as Cooper’s fingers slide into dark hair, short nails scraping over that sweet spot at the base of his skull…

A needy whine tears its way up his throat.

Cooper breaks the kiss, drawing in unsteady breaths as he gazes down at the young man in his arms. Those eyes – those light blue eyes – they dance with curiosity; with questions. “Been that long, huh, sweet pea?” And the smile that graces the man’s face is as warm as the rest of him, holding neither mockery nor triumph nor malice. No, those eyes and that smile only hold kindness, understanding, and compassion. “Just say the word an’ we’ll stop.”

And as those hands run through his hair, warm and alive and human, he finally breaks.

“Touch me… Please…”

Hands slide down, caressing his back, encircling his waist, pulling him in and holding him. He loops his arms around the soldier’s neck, clinging desperately to his warmth. And Cooper shifts, hands once more on his hips, holding him tight and lifting him up. That body – that warm and kind and strong body. It lifts him with ease, holding him close as he’s gently placed down upon a hay bale. With the stubble scratching at his neck contrasting beautifully with the caress of kisses, he wraps his legs around Cooper, pulling him closer, trapping himself in this heat.

The kindly Ranger lets loose a soft laugh; his breath is warm as it tickles flushed skin. “Don’t worry. I ain’t going nowhere.”

And then Cooper’s hand shifts, softly teasing open his fly. The young man gasps as a warm and rough hand grips his cock, pulling it free and into the cool air. The hand quickly retreats, landing instead on his lower back, urging him in closer as the soldier releases his own cock from restrictive clothing. Their hips tilt, hot and tender flesh pressing together, Cooper eagerly taking them both in hand.

And then the man starts to tug, twisting his wrist, drawing a whimper from pink lips as he presses soft kisses into black hair. “Just relax, sweet pea. I got ya, I got ya.”

Tommy melts into his protective embrace, his warmth, his touch, that hand mercifully speeding up to set a pace that makes his toes curl. He buries his face into Cooper, nuzzling at that solid chest, hearing every compassionate heartbeat ringing out harder and faster than the last.

His side, it tickles, a familiar jolt of electricity springing out to frazzle his nerves as the coil in his abdomen begins to tighten. Up it soars, pooling into the base of his skull, making his teeth itch.

Cooper’s breath is ragged. Ragged as Tommy’s own.

“Oh, fuck, sweet pea. Ya gonna cum for me?”

He whimpers, the sound a long and needy whine, his hands desperately seeking purchase on sweat-slicked skin pulled taut over muscle, short nails scraping dark red stripes on pale white. And Cooper’s hand speeds up again, finding a demanding pace and rhythm that pushes Tommy towards the edge.

“Cum for me, ya pretty little thing.”

And as he does, as Tommy finally let go, spilling up Cooper’s stomach, he sinks his itching teeth into warm flesh.

~*~*~

The drunken idiot stumbles out of the bar, completely oblivious to the man shadowing him.

Murphy had been keeping an eye on Warren, that woman downing her drink before glaring at the barman for more. And then Doc had sauntered over and started asking stupid questions, Cassandra in tow – but not 10k, Murphy had noted. A drunken idiot had blathered on about his car, all solar panels this and built-in kitchen that. Then – then! – he’d backtracked, completely refusing to even consider making a trade, the asshole.

Well, Murphy is in a lot more need than one drunken idiot holing himself up in fucking _Kansas_ , so of course he’s gonna help this Forman guy perform a little act of charity.

So, here he is, tailing the idiot as he stumbles along, Forman using the wall of a barn to support himself as he seeks out a place to piss. Staggering passed the doorway of the barn, the idiot pauses, turning to leer stupidly into the dark. Then, disgust washing over his face, he lurches away and wobbles on.

Will he pick a damn spot and piss already? How far can one drunken asshole wander just to take a leak?! Letting that indecisive bastard pull ahead, Murphy stalks along the side of the barn–

“Touch me… Please…”

–and his stomach drops.

He knows that voice, the familiar lilt soft and delicate as it utters its plea.

Murphy should leave. He should turn around right now and leave. Whatever is going on– Oh, who is he kidding? He knows exactly what’s going on in there, and he knows he should allow some privacy, but…

But he can’t, his feet rooted firmly in the dirt.

Because that’s 10k. _His_ 10k.

Drawing a clarifying breath, forcing it slow and steady through his nose before pushing it gently back out again, Murphy takes a step towards the barn door. Then a second. A third. Peering into the gloom, he wills his eyes to adjust faster to peer through the complicit darkness.

Then, there he is – 10k, half-dressed and perching on the edge of a wilted bale of hay, slender arms and legs wrapped around a stranger. That brute is all meat and muscle, likely made of entirely brawn and thus possessing little in the way of brains. And as his Princess whimpers into the broad chest; as that bastard chokes out a low groan; as whatever the fuck this is that he’s being forced to witness arrives at its painfully sordid conclusion, Murphy feels two things.

The first is nausea, dripping down into his stomach where it settles, all oil and grease, before it curdles, trying to barge its way up his throat to paint the brown grass at his feet.

The second is anger, searing his flesh as it coils its way through his chest to constrict his heart. Because how dare this insolent _bastard_ think he has the right to touch something that’s Murphy’s?!

‘10k’; ‘Ten’; ‘Ten Thousand’. No matter what the little shit is calling himself, he belongs to Murphy and Murphy alone.

That bastard has pulled away now, having cleaned them off and passed back discarded clothing. And once they’re redressed, as his Princess is faffing about with that silk scarf in the young man’s usual, ineffectual manner, the bastard lifts his hands. Sinks his fingers into silk. Straightens up the scarf in all the _wrong_ ways.

With the click of a lighter, the cigarette now clasped between Ten’s lips lights, Murphy quickly ducks out of the doorway and into cover as the two turn to exit the barn.

“Now, I ain’t lookin’ to assume, sweet pea, but I wanna do this the proper way. Once I won this competition, how ‘bout I buy ya a drink?”

A curl of smoke drifts brazenly across dark pink lips. “But I’m going to win.”

“Well, ain’t you a cocky little thing.” The bastard’s laugh is deep, a smirk sliding across his face. “But, if ya do, how ‘bout _you_ buy _me_ a drink?”

And Ten looks him up and down, head tilting to the side as he smiles. “I’ll think about it.”

Cigarette half smoked, the young man curls his fingers, going to flick it away. But he pauses. Hesitates. Then offers it to the brute of a man. And that bastard accepts it with another smile.

“You go on ahead, sweet pea, in case we get seen.” The smile falters, a tinge of red tinting the man’s cheeks, fingers lifting up to gesture at his lips as he clears his throat. “You, uh, got a little, ah…”

Whatever the bastard had been reluctant to say, it doesn’t matter, 10k catching on with a shy grin. Licking his own lips before scrubbing them with his sleeve, the young man nods, turning to leave.

And Murphy just… watches him go. Ten hadn’t seemed hurt, and he doesn’t seem hurried. The man knows he should leave, should walk away himself, should let this– this– _whatever_ it is go.

But he can’t.

With that bastard leaning against the barn wall, taking the last drag of a cigarette that should have been gifted to Murphy, he sees his chance. His back is straight; his stride is steady; his face is twisted in a snarl as he confronts this waste of space of a fucking thief. “You need to back off.”

The bastard’s unfazed, looking him up and down as he approaches, face calm as a single brow lifts. “An’ who might you be?”

“I’m Murphy.”

“That meant to mean somethin’?”

He’s closer now. Can get a better look at the bastard. Which means there is no way on this forsaken fucking planet that he’d be able to miss it. On the front of that grubby white vest are a few droplets of blood, all bright and red and _fresh._ A growl tears its way up Murphy’s throat. “Stay the fuck away from Ten. He doesn’t belong to you.”

And the bastard has the gall to frown at him! To push his face into something stony, a vague attempt being threatening. “Don’t look like he belong ta you, neither, not with how he walked his tight little ass over ta _me_.”

Murphy’s lip curls, baring his teeth in a snarl.

The bastard scowls right back. “Ya can say what ya want, _Murphy_ , but actions speak louder. Weren’t your hand wrapped around that pretty, pink cock.”

And the man lurches forward, blood almost deafening as it rushes through his ears. But the bastard had been expecting it, casually lifting his rifle and shoving it in Murphy’s face.

“He came ta me, buddy. Not you.”

As Murphy takes a step back, the bastard slowly lowers his rifle, giving him one more look up and down before shouldering his rifle and turning to leave.

“Take the hint.”

Murphy’s blood still boils in his veins, that tightness in his chest returning, sizzling the nerves as it burns through his heart. This problem can wait. He can sort this bastard out later. For now, he has to focus; has to track down Forman.

As he stalks off back into the crowds in search of a drunken idiot, Murphy’s anger prickles up the back of his neck, making his teeth itch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, there we go - the first lil bit of smut in the series. And it was an odd one.
> 
> I've been procrastinating on my IRL writing and a major deadline is about to punch me in the face. I'll start on the third and final chapter of this part as soon as that's been met.
> 
> Also, forgot to mention last time - title is inspired by the song "Three Cigarettes in an Ashtray" by Patsy Cline. It pretty much sums up Murphy in these last two chapters.
> 
> Let me know what you think so far.
> 
> Until next time!
> 
> <3


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which it's Cassandra's turn to enjoy the gun show.
> 
> Then, Murphy makes a promise.
> 
> Finally, Warren asks her question.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: brief homophobia; single instance of a homophobic slur
> 
> To mark the 2 year anniversary of me starting the planning of this series, a preview of some art has been posted at the end of the chapter. The full image can be found at the link below the picture.
> 
> In memory of Tommy H, who always believed in me.  
> You always thought that I was crazy enough to actually write this.  
> Guess that's another thing you were right about!  
> <3

_The family exists for many reasons, but its most basic function may be to draw together after a member dies._

_\- Stephen King_

“Can’t you wait for him? He’ll be here soon, I know it.”

As pleading as Cassandra’s words are, Sketchy just shakes his head in response. “Sorry, little lady. Can’t be seen playing favourites, now, can we? It ain’t good for business.”

Cassandra’s arms tighten around herself, fingers gripping desperately into the soft fabric of her jacket. Where the hell has Ten gone? And why did he just suddenly leave? They were in the bar joining the queue to sign him up for this shooting competition, something the kid himself had wanted to do, 10k close on their heels and then– Then he was gone. Neither a word nor a look to let them know. Just… gone. Doc had decided to sign him up anyway, looking more confident than he sounded when he said that the kid wouldn’t have gone far. After they’d asked about Wannamaker and been dismissed by that Forman guy, Doc had corralled Cassandra towards the shooting range in hopes that Ten had just gotten over eager and wanted to scope out more of his competition. Failing to find him here, the old guy had told her to stay put in case he turned up before setting off in search of the kid.

She’s tried to be patient and trust in them both, she really has, but now time is running out, Doc has yet to return, and she hasn’t seen hide nor hair of her absent friend…

“We talkin’ ‘bout Doc’s kid?” That other guy, Skeezy, pops up beside Sketchy, looking between his business partner and Cassandra. “Somethin’ wrong? Saw him not long ago.”

“You’ve seen Ten?” The words fall out of her mouth, a tumble almost as hasty as the eager step forward she takes. “Where was he? Is he okay?”

“Yeah, he seemed it. An’ he was, erm…” The scrawny man pauses, scratching awkwardly at his chin as he sends Sketchy an unreadable look. “Was _with_ the Ranger.”

“Ranger Cooper? Really?” Sketchy’s thick brows shoot upwards, surprise dancing across his face before it melts into an amused laugh. “Now, this certainly _is_ an interesting development!” After the two men have finished grinning at each other, Sketchy finally turns back to Cassandra. “Don’t worry about a thing, little lady. Coop might look like a grizzled old guard dog, but his bark is _much_ worse than his bite, believe you me. If he’s with him, your friend is in good hands, I personally guarantee it.”

And with that, the two men wander off, Sketchy shooing Skeezy away with instructions to finish setting up for the competition, leaving Cassandra none the wiser. That man’s words don’t make sense. Just a few moments ago when he’d first pointed that Ranger out to them Sketchy had called the soldier ‘as dangerous as they come’. If he’s so dangerous, then how can he be so positive that 10k will be safe with him? It doesn’t add up.

With the two men gone, Cassandra finds herself alone again. Alone in a bustling crowd with only her questions to keep her company. Doc hasn’t come back, 10k is still missing, and she doesn’t recognise a single one of the faces milling around her. She weaves aimlessly through the horde, skirting around an old guy with a tatty beard ending halfway down his chest; dodges passed a blonde woman wearing a loose blue shirt and clutching a drink in hand; sidesteps a middle-aged man with a short beard as he speaks quietly to a young woman with long, dark hair–

Long dark hair? Is that…? She’s the girl from the bar!

Cassandra eagerly steps towards them – there’s no harm in asking, right? “Excuse me, but have you seen my friend? Taller than me, dark hair, wearing grey? You saw him in the bar.”

The young woman looks over at her, brows dipped in confusion, but before she can speak the man with her, likely her father, steps forward. “We haven’t seen anybody. Now, if you’ll excuse _us_ …”

And with that, the man wraps his arm defensively around the young woman’s shoulders and steers her closer to the shooting range, leaving Cassandra alone once more.

Working her way to edge of the crowd, she starts to pace. Back and forth, back and forth; her worn boots carve an apprehensive groove in the grass. Is 10k even still here? She knows that Skeezy said that he’d seen him but how long ago had that been? Ten has become distant since Garnett died, choosing to close himself off to everyone, even her. Cassandra knows that she should trust her friend; trust that he’ll find his way back to them, both physically and mentally, but…

But if Murphy had done something…?

That arrogant asshole had been the reason that 10k had decided to come back to them in Philly, of this Cassandra is sure. So, if he no longer has that reason – no longer has that _connection_ – then what if… What if Ten has decided it’s time for him to move on?

After all, she doesn’t even see that Ranger milling about in this lonely crowd.

Cassandra’s fingers press into the fabric of her shirt, gripping the feathered necklace protectively stashed away underneath.

_…Ten… You didn’t even say ‘goodbye’…_

“Ladies and gentlemen. It’s that moment you’ve all been waiting for. It’s shootin’ time!”

As Sketchy crows his announcement from the back of his truck, his words amplified as they echo through a neon traffic cone, the crowd begins to cheer. The contestants start to shift, to drift in closer to the shooting range before keenly lining up. And as the milling spectators wander over, excitement stripping any weariness from their faces, one figure pulls out from the pack.

Pulls ahead.

Makes a beeline for her.

10k.

His hair is mussed, his face flushed and sweaty, his breaths quickened slightly from his sprint, but it’s him. It’s her friend. It’s Ten. He’s here and he’s unharmed and he’s _come back to her._

Pale grey eyes dance around, a frown tugging at pink lips. “Where’s Doc?”

And Cassandra doesn’t think, instinct and relief and joy combining to lift her arm, her fingers desperate to grip onto his camo shirt, to pull him close and safe, to bury her face into the familiarity of his solid chest.

Then, she remembers. Hesitates.

At the last moment, her arm stops, fingers hanging dead in the air. Because 10k doesn’t like to be touched, right? Her and Doc have had to step away, to hold back, to give Ten some distance while he heals. She wants more than anything to feel his warmth pressed close again, for him to let her in.

And that’s why she stops. Why she must hold back. Must wait. Must let him be the one to make the first move.

And then, he does.

His own arm lifting, no hesitation present to mar the grace of its arc, Ten’s fingers wrap around her own. And it’s just as she remembers it: the soft gloves; the rough skin; the gentle squeeze. It’s all the same, all tender in its assuredness. Because 10k is still the same, all warm and alive and trusting.

She shouldn’t have doubted him, not even for a second.

Pulling back to their reality, Cassandra laces their fingers together, a motion both familiar and comforting. “Come on, you’ve got a competition to win.”

Throwing him a smile, her heart feels light when he smiles back at her, all open and sunny. Turning on her heel, she tugs him along the line of contestants. Reaching the middle, she nudges him forwards, 10k enthusiastically slotting himself in between a bearded old hillbilly and that young woman from the bar.

Dropping his bag to the ground, 10k shrugs his rifle from his back as he crouches down with the others. Once in position, he turns to the young woman, face still bright. “I’m To– uh, Ten. As in Ten Thousand.”

The young woman shoots him a sideways glance, dark eyes inquisitive as they rove over him, before she turns back to her rifle. “Don’t need to know your name to kick your ass.”

10k just blinks, taken aback. Then, his usual small smile tugs once more at his lips as he drops his own attention back to the rifle in hand, leaning down to peer through his scope.

From his place on the back of his weapons truck, Sketchy bellows out instructions through his traffic cone as supporters of the other competitors give last minute advice and well-wishes. Cassandra knows that she could do the same, that she could reassure her friend with words or a gesture, that she could tell him that she believes in him. With how he’s all steady hands and limber frame, 10k is more relaxed right now than she’s ever seen him, and the smirk taking over his face speaks more than enough for the kid’s confidence. Anything she could say would merely be preaching to the choir.

The first few rounds pass quickly and uneventfully, only one competitor being eliminated. Heavy footfalls turn Cassandra’s head from the action in time to see that Ranger sigh before he glares up at Sketchy, obviously annoyed.

“Aw, hell. Ya coulda waited.”

Sketchy just pulls the cone away from his mouth, grinning down at the latecomer. “Sorry, Coop. Can’t delay the competition for all these fine folks just cuz you went and got yourself a _distraction_ , now, can we?”

With an amused shake of his head, Cooper waves Sketchy’s words off, instead striding closer to the shooting range. Pulling up beside her, the Ranger nods a polite greeting to Cassandra. Then, smiling down at 10k, he makes sure to keep his voice low. “Seems like it’s up ta you ta win, sweet pea. That way ya can buy me a drink.”

_…What…?_

10k shoots a glance over his shoulder, smirking. “What if I lose?”

“Might ask ta buy ya a drink anyway.”

The final few pieces fall into place as a faint laugh – one small and surprised – ghosts over Cassandra’s lips. How her friend had suddenly disappeared without any warning or explanation; how Sketchy had become amused when Skeezy had told them what he’d seen; how Cooper is acting so familiar with a stranger who he should have seen as competition.

Ten had wandered off but not because he was planning on leaving her. Far from it, in fact. No, Ten had gone in search of a little pre-competition ‘distraction’ of his own and, of all the men here at this gun show, he’d chosen the ‘dangerous’ Ranger Cooper. Studying the muscular man intensely enough to make him almost squirm, Cassandra must admit that she approves. Murphy aside, her friend certainly has good taste!

With how those two had grinned at each other like love drunk idiots while quipping back and forth, the true meaning behind their exchange hadn’t escaped the notice of those close enough to hear it. That old hillbilly on one side of Ten had awkwardly shifted in place while the dark-haired young woman on the other had only given the kid a curious glance. It hadn’t lasted long, though, Sketchy soon calling out about the next target, his voice louder than before in order to be heard clearly over the yelling coming from near the bar.

The competition marches onwards, the old hillbilly next to Ten one those eliminated. As Cassandra has nothing to do but watch, she decides she might as well whittle away some time by doing a little digging. The Ranger standing at her side has caught her friend’s eye, after all. “You entered too, right? How come you were late and Ten wasn’t?”

Cooper manages to drag pale blue eyes from 10k long enough to study her, to size up both her and her intentions, before relaxing, a gentle curiosity washing over his face. “Got held up by some guy accusin’ me of encroachin’ on his territory. Called himself ‘Murphy’. That name mean anythin’ ta ya?”

10k’s fingers falter as they reload his rifle, though he quickly recovers. Not that it escapes Cooper’s notice, the man sighing.

“Look, if there’s somethin’ between you two, just say the word an’ I’ll back off. I ain’t lookin’ for no trouble, sweet pea.”

“There’s not.” Ten’s voice is low, distracted, the kid not even glancing away from his scope. “Murphy’s not interested. He made that clear.” And with that, 10k squeezes the trigger, hitting his target.

It seems that Cooper isn’t an idiot, though, the Ranger casting Cassandra a doubtful look.

She just shrugs. “They were close until recently but something bad happened. Someone died. And, well, if you’ve met Murphy, you’ll probably know that he can be an asshole.”

Shaking his head, an amused smile twitches at the corners of Cooper’s mouth. “The kinda words I’d use ta describe a guy like him ain’t the kinda words I’d use around a young lady.”

At that, Cassandra cannot help but laugh because, yeah, the Ranger has _definitely_ met their Murphy!

The yelling from over near the bar reaches its crescendo, a few scattered gunshots cracking through the air. With a low grunt, one of the spectators collapses to the ground, clutching at the blossoming of red on their side. Within seconds they lurch upwards, zombified and snarling. The competitors turn to watch as the spectators closest to the Z draw their weapons, peppering its body with bullets. Sighing, Cooper drops low, the kid giving a quick nod before the Ranger slides a hand into Ten’s bag and pulls lose a pistol. Quickly giving it a once over, Cooper raises the gun and fires, hitting the Z between the eyes.

As the crowd whoops and hollers, some volunteering to drag the dead Z away, the Ranger uses the distraction to lean back down and stash the pistol back in Ten’s bag. But as Cooper starts to pull away, his arms close in to casually encircle a slender waist as his lips press in close to 10k’s ear. “I was bein’ serious ‘bout that drink, sweet pea. Take some time ta think an’ then let me know.” Pressing a quick kiss into black hair, he finally pulls away, Cooper allowing large, rough-looking hands to trail up Ten’s sides before dancing along his shoulders. The Ranger smiles, all fond and tender, because the answering rosy blush painting pale cheeks says more than words ever could.

Not all the cheering crowd had remained oblivious to this isolated oasis of affection, however, the eliminated old hillbilly scowling, his face curdling in disgust. “Fuckin’ fags…”

“What was that, sir?” Cooper rounds on the old hillbilly, standing tall and proud, a small smile still gracing his lips. A smile that doesn’t quite reach the Ranger’s icy eyes.

“What was what?” The old hillbilly tries to play dumb, but his confidence quickly wavers as he takes in the sheer size of the man in front of him, one foot taking a slight step backwards.

“What was it ya just said? Couldn’t quite hear ya. Could ya repeat it for me, _sir_?”

Mouth dropping open and flapping uselessly, the old hillbilly flounders for a few more moments before snapping it shut. Another scowl taking its place, though this one lacking the heat of the last, he wordlessly staggers off through the crowd, tail tucked neatly between his legs.

Ten shoots Cooper a small, grateful smile, the relief evident on his face as he turns to peer once more through his scope.

It would be impossible for Cassandra to miss the fondness the Ranger already holds for her friend as he watches 10k take perfect shot after perfect shot. It’s a fondness that reassures her while at the same time planting the tiniest seed of fear in her gut. Sketchy had been right, after all: Ten _had_ been in good hands with Cooper. But if her friend had gone to him for comfort; if he had trusted a literal stranger with his worries more than herself or Doc; if he no longer has a reason to keep travelling with them…

Well, it’s not like Ranger Cooper can join them in their journey to California.

As the competition drags on, the contestants are whittled down further, now little more than a handful remaining. Taking a quick pause to reload, the dark-haired young woman shoots Ten another curious glance. “Why are you called ‘Ten Thousand’?”

Ten smiles over at her, her sudden interest igniting a spark of happiness in grey eyes. “It’s how many Zs I plan to kill.”

“How many you got?”

“Not counting– …Not counting today, two thousand, three hundred and forty-eight.”

The young woman just smiles, peering through her own scope. “I’m Brittany, not that it matters. And I’ll still get more than you today.”

“Maybe.” A familiar, cocky smirk drips from Ten’s lips. “Maybe not.”

And with that she knows her friend is back. Cassandra’s friend is finally back! Sure, she’s not too enthused about how it likely happened, as nice a guy as Cooper seems to be, but honestly? Right now, she’s too relieved to care. It had helped him clear his head enough to take some steps towards healing. For that, she’ll be eternally grateful to the Ranger, even if he _does_ end up stealing her dear friend away.

Weaving his way through the crowd, a hurried Doc catches Cassandra’s eye, panting as he makes his own beeline for her. Sidestepping Cooper and placing a hand gently on her shoulder, the old guy drops his voice to mutter urgently in her ear. “We need to get out of here.”

But Cassandra shakes her head before nodding down at 10k. “We can’t, not yet.”

“He’s still in it?”

“Oh yeah.”

“That’s my boy!”

The smile lighting up Doc’s face shines as bright as the one Cooper had shown her earlier. It’s such a shame that Cassandra is about to ask something that could ruin this good a mood.

“Did you see Murphy?”

A long and laboured sigh visibly deflates the old guy, his smile predictably fading. “Oh, yeah. I found him, alright. Made him go wait in the truck.”

“All that yelling before was his fault, right? What did he do this time?”

Doc hesitates, weighing up his words before leaning in closer. “You’re probably not gonna believe this but that Forman guy? He only went and accused Murphy of _biting_ him.”

“Dang, ain’t bitin’ a thing today…” The Ranger winces at Doc’s overheard words, rubbing gingerly at his chest, fingers teasing over bright red splotches.

Blood.

That’s fresh blood on his vest.

Seeing it too, Doc’s face hardens. “Did Murphy do that?”

Cooper just grins, his pale blue eyes dancing with amusement. “Nah, got this bite from a pretty little thing I had a roll with. Kinkier than I’d been expectin’, but it don’t hurt much an’ was more than worth it.”

“She _bit you_?” Doc’s brows jump up in shock, disappearing under his white hair. “Who the hell thinks it’s a good idea to have a damn biting fetish in a _zombie apocalypse_? She should just settle for something tamer like the rest of us have. Like bondage!”

With Doc and Cooper sharing a hearty laugh, Cassandra can’t help but to watch as 10k shrinks down lower, huddling over his rifle as if trying to escape everyone’s attention. She’s not alone in noticing him, however, both Brittany and her father casting the kid stunned glances. And he knows it, too, judging by that little dusting of pink on his cheeks and the way his ears are practically _glowing_ the prettiest ruby red.

But, really, she can’t blame him for this embarrassment. Because _biting_? How has he managed to hide that one from her and all her expert prying during their talks while they’re alone together?

As soon as this is over, once her friend has mourned Garnett a little longer and has more fully bounced back to his usual self, there will be nothing standing between her and finding out just exactly what kind of kinks 10k _really_ has. She’s gotten enough out of him already to know that she’ll surely be able to get to the bottom of this.

Hell, she’d even be willing to stake her life on it!

~*~*~

Murphy stares down at Forman, tongue gingerly prodding at his reclaimed tooth.

He didn’t turn.

Forman, the guy Murphy had _bitten_ , didn’t turn when he died.

How?

_Why_?

It doesn’t make sense. The idiot had gotten himself shot in the torso, not the head. His brain is still intact. The others that had gotten shot in that stupid gunfight had all turned so… So why not this guy?

Only one thing makes Forman different from the others. A thing that Murphy doesn’t want to– That Murphy doesn’t _have the time_ to think about.

This gun show is tearing apart at the seams, the inebriated locals having shot each other into an outbreak of zombies. He’d left the relative safety of the truck to gather up that single piece of incriminating evidence. How he hadn’t noticed his damn tooth was missing before Doc had pointed it out, Murphy will just chalk up to panic. Even the best of people have an off day here and there, after all, and these past few weeks have been at least the tiniest bit stressful. And don’t even get him started on these last couple of days!

But, yeah. He’d better get his ass in gear and get back to the truck before anyone notices that he’d wandered off as soon as Doc had turned his back. That old hippy had even had the gall to tell him he’s ‘disappointed’ in him! That’s the kind of comment that would sting a bit should Murphy actually care about Doc’s opinion.

He weaves his way back through the crowds. This shit show has descended into chaos faster then the man had believed possible, even if it was predominately inhabited by gun nuts with damn moonshine. He doesn’t let any of this death and disorder slow him down, however: it’s not like these Zs are paying attention to _him_. Instead, he keeps his focus, thinking only of what he needs to do right in this moment. He needs to find his way out of here. He needs to find his way back to the truck. But most importantly, he needs to find his way back to 10k.

Rounding a minivan, the truck comes into sight. Warren storms up to the front passenger door, bloody machete freshly pried out of an old zombie hillbilly. She barks orders at Doc and Cassandra, the two quickly falling in line and climbing in, the old hippy taking the driver’s seat. Nice to see Warren’s gotten her shit back together so quickly. Maybe that means there is hope for 10k, after all…

Everyone is safely back at the truck. Everyone but the one person Murphy wants to see the most. He needs to fix this, and properly this time. In his haste – his _ignorance_ – he’d only succeeded in pushing the young man away. Pushing him far enough to seek solace in some other guy’s arms.

Now, Murphy wants his Princess back.

So when he sees it, a flash of grey and blue that sends a narcotic wave of relief rushing through his veins, the only thing that prevents him from breaking his cover and personally dragging 10k’s sweet little ass back to the truck is the hulking behemoth of a man marching at his side.

Murphy’s lip curls into a snarl. It’s that bastard from the barn.

At Warren’s harsh whistle, 10k glances over towards the truck, slipping a hand from the rather scary looking rifle he’s carrying to wave in response. He doesn’t make his way over to them, though, even as Doc makes the engine roar to life. No, instead he turns to that bastard at his side, smiling up at him. And when a smile is given in return, Murphy’s bared teeth start to itch, bring forth a recent memory – one of blood, all metallic and cloying – and it turns his stomach.

Ten presses that huge rifle towards the bastard. “Take this. You deserve it more than I do.”

Surprisingly, the bastard shakes his head, nudging the rifle away. “Nah, sweet pea. Ya won that fair an’ square.”

Dark brows cinch in, grey eyes widening slightly as a frown threatens to tug at pink lips, 10k’s tried and tested puppy look sliding expertly into place. “Really. I want you to have it. Instead of a drink.”

At that, the hulking man can only frown, accepting the rifle with neither fanfare nor argument. Slinging its bulk effortlessly onto his back, he gives Ten a long, hesitant look. “Ya sure I can’t temp ya to come with us? I could buy ya a drink at the next town.”

Now it’s 10k’s turn to frown, shaking his head. “Got a mission. Need to see I through.”

And the man doesn’t complain, doesn’t try to argue his case or change the young man’s mind. He just accepts it with a smile. Lifting a hand up, he gently cups Ten’s cheek. “Then how ‘bout a kiss for the road?”

When 10k shakes his head once more, dislodging the man’s hand as he casts a weary glance back over to the truck, his actions are yet again met with nothing but understanding. The tips of his fingers trailing along a pale cheek before they drop, that not-quite-a-bastard instead tugs a handgun from his waist while fishing in his pocket. Pressing both the gun and a fistful of bullets into Ten’s hands, the man gives a solemn nod. “These will have ta do instead, then, sweet pea.”

The truck’s horn honks, Doc likely pressing it at an impatient Warren’s behest. Those two don’t move a muscle though, instead continuing to stare at each other, neither quite sure how to say goodbye.

Good thing that Murphy is here to help them out, then, isn’t it?

Breaking from his cover, he quickly closes the gap between himself and Ten, drawing two sets of pale eyes towards himself. Then, he lifts a hand, finally able to reach out. “Come on, Princess. It’s time.”

Those beautiful, pale grey eyes widen in surprise before swiftly dropping low, a vain attempt to hide the relief that had flooded in. After stashing those parting gifts safely into his bag, his Princess gives one final nod towards that guy before turning away. And as he moves, as he passes Murphy by, a gloved hand lifts, its fingers softly grazing along those held out to him. Sure, the young man hadn’t taken the proffered hand, but then, Murphy hadn’t expected him to, not really. The small serving of affection that Ten had meted out is more than good enough for him, though. It always will be.

Turning to follow, Murphy starts his own short trek over to the truck–

“Murphy.”

–only to glance back with a sigh. What the fuck is it now? Isn’t this stupid little detour of theirs be over and done with, already?

The hulking mass looks him up and down, choosing his words carefully. “He’s a sweet little thing. Don’t mess ‘im around.” Tugging that stupidly big rifle into hand, he turns, dismissing Murphy with a few final words. “Shoot ya shot or let ‘im go. He deserves that much.”

As he nears the truck, Doc starts to pull out, stopping with the rear door next to Murphy. Not that he takes the old hippy up on his offer. Drumming his fingers along the cool glass of the window in a distracted greeting to Cassandra, he keeps moving.

Ignoring the shocked look from 10k, Murphy grunts as he pulls himself up into the bed before wordlessly retaking his place at his Princess’s side.

Murphy has seen many sunsets while riding in this damn truck. Ones where he’s drifting in and out of a restless sleep, face pressed into the window glass, the colours above barely registering. Some where he’s huddled in a corner of the bed, insomnia joining the weight of his fate in crushing him as the fiery sky burns his retinas. Even a few precious nights here and there where he’s snuggled up under a ratty grey blanket, the golden hues above brushing a delicate glow onto the cheeks of the young man gently snoring away on his shoulder.

As much as the man wishes that he could take certain things back, things that would allow this sunset to be one of those deeply treasured third kinds, he knows that this upcoming night will be as ill-fated as himself should he allow this silence to drag on for too much longer.

Murphy scratches at the back of his neck and takes another glance over at 10k: he’s huddled against the side of the bed with his legs tucked in tight to his chest, the water bottle Doc had emptied discarded uselessly at his side. And he’s looking right back at the man.

As soon as their eyes meet, the young man ducks his head, fiddling with his scarf. It’s been like this since they got clear of the Z breakout at the gun show: Murphy would feel that prickling, the one that always draws his attention over to meet those pale grey eyes. Eyes that don’t advert themselves swiftly enough to hide the glimmer of shame shining within. Neither of them have spoken a word, either, this awkward silence having been allowed to hang over them for what feels like hours.

No, not ‘feels like’, because it _has_ been hours. Actual, literal hours.

And it ends now.

He keeps his eyes locked onto his companion, throwing a hand out in a way he hopes portrays an adequate air of nonchalance, gesturing to the empty bottle. “You drank anything today?”

10k shakes his head, still looking downwards.

Tugging their steel canister from his jacket pocket, Murphy takes a quick gulp. Not that he needed one. Then, he holds it out expectantly.

Once more, the young man shakes his head. “That’s yours.”

“Ours, Princess. It’s ours. And _you_ need to drink.”

“Don’t drink much. Never have.”

“I don’t care.” Murphy doesn’t even bother holding back his annoyance, his words bristling. Because, really, of all the stupid and petty things to get stubborn about, the little shit chooses this? “Don’t need my best bodyguard collapsing from dehydration, not with California still so far away.”

But that’s not Murphy’s only reason, is it?

Tongue flickering out to lap at no-doubt parched lips, Ten lifts a gloved hand towards the bottle.

And it’s not good enough. Not what Murphy wants. What he _needs_.

“Sorry, Princess, but this corner of mine is particularly comfortable tonight. If you really want it, you’re gonna have to come get it.”

10k finally looks up, a flicker of irritation burning away any residual shame marring pale grey. Now that’s better – _much_ better – that beautiful face just begging to twist further, to flood with that youthful brazenness that the man has come to adore. Shame should never again hold the privilege of adorning such a beguiling creature.

Patting the floor of the bed next to his thighs, the man strips away any pretence from his face, determined to be at least a little bit honest with his true intentions for the first time in this damn Apocalypse. Some of his intentions, anyway. “And hurry up – it’s gonna get cold soon and you’ve got the blanket.”

Nudging his bag out of the way, Ten starts to slink his way across the bed, his almost palpable caution doing little to tarnish the precise fluidity of the young man’s movements as he creeps closer. And as soon as he’s traversed enough of the bed, Murphy reaches out for him. Coiling an arm possessively– no, _affectionately_ around his waist, the man guides him the rest of the way into their corner. Nestling back comfortably, he shifts, urging the young man in closer until he slots perfectly into Murphy’s side, back where he belongs.

As that steel canteen raises to soft-looking pink lips, Murphy cannot help but sigh in relief. With the canteen now drained of all its contents and discarded, the man refuses to let go. He sees no need to. Not when his arm is wrapped back around his Princess, rough fingers seeking out that now familiar slither of skin along 10k’s hip to press into the delightfully taut muscle beneath.

“You saw.”

Murphy leans down slightly, pressing his cheek into the top of Ten’s head, his stubble catching in the dark hair. “I did.”

The young man shifts, trying to draw his knees upward as if to wrap his arms around them in a feeble attempt at seeking comfort alone. Not that Murphy lets him. No, the man’s hold is steadfast, committed to providing whatever his Princess may need. “Murphy, I–”

“You don’t have to apologise, and you don’t have to explain anything to me. Because…” His words falter, the man unsure how to best express this feeling. Usually getting this kind of admission out of Murphy is like drawing blood from a stone or pulling teeth. Well, he supposes he’s already done one of those things today, in the loosest sense of the phrase. Idly tonguing at the tooth he’d recovered from the man who hadn’t turned, Murphy nuzzles into dark hair, steeling himself for what he’s about to say. “Because it was my fault, not yours. I fucked up. Pushed you away. Made you feel like you had nowhere else to turn. And I’m… I’m sorry, 10k.”

Ten tenses in his arms. It’s only for a moment, one brief enough that Murphy cannot be sure it actually happened, the young man soon relaxing his muscles to instead timidly peer up at him. Those pale eyes are wide, the smallest speck of fear drifting around in those pleading grey depths, but of what he’s afraid Murphy cannot begin to fathom.

It can’t be of him, right? That Murphy will turn him away again?

No, that will never happen. He’s made that mistake once already and he never wants to make it again. Not after he’d seen the hurt that it can cause and the consequences it can bring. No matter what this equally strange and extraordinary bond that is forming between them turns out to be, and no matter what their shared and uncertain future decides it has in store for them, Murphy will never push this young man away again. He knows that he’s never been straight with people, that every one of his actions has some underlying ulterior motive. Fuck, even allowing Ten to worm his way in so close to him isn’t exempt from this habitual manipulation! Because of this, Murphy has always been keenly aware that his word has never carried much weight, but right now? Right in this moment? With 10k peering up at him, scared and uncertain; with the still fresh memory of the anger that had saturated his mind, rabid and all-encompassing; with Murphy’s own acknowledgement that the pain that he himself had caused this young man could have been prevented so easily…

Every ounce of integrity that remains in his wretched, bite-riddled body is poured into a single promise: he will _never_ push Ten away again, especially in a time of need.

Murphy sincerely hopes that this will be the first promise he’s able to keep.

Lifting a hand, he gently cups 10k’s cheek. It’s a comforting gesture. Or at least he hopes it is. Murphy has never been the best at this kind of thing but that doesn’t mean he isn’t willing to try. “What is it, Princess? What’s wrong?”

And Ten’s eyes drop, unable to hold Murphy’s gaze. “…Say it again... Please…”

What is it he wants Murphy to say? That he’s sorry?

No, it couldn’t be that. Sure, Murphy isn’t the type to admit his wrongdoing all that often but something that simple couldn’t have elicited such a reaction from the young man.

Unless…

“10k.”

Those dark brows cinch in, grey eyes squeezing shut. Murphy’s hand shifts, sliding into fluffy hair, urging the young man closer, cradling Ten’s head against his chest.

“10k.”

Breath hitches. Gentle shudders begin to wrack through a body that suddenly feels small and fragile. Murphy wraps his arms tighter around him, holding him closer. His face drops, dry lips nuzzling tenderly into Ten’s hair.

“Your name is 10k.”

Then tears start to fall. The man doesn’t have to see them to know they’re there, not with how their warmth drips onto his shirt and soaks through the fabric, making his heart clench.

How long they stay like this, 10k desperately clinging to him as Murphy tenderly returns the embrace, neither of the men know. If he’s honest with himself, the man isn’t even sure what’s really going on; what is running through that pretty little head. Then again, he doesn’t actually need to, does he? So, as Ten’s breathing starts to even out, syncing up with Murphy’s own, the man whispers words into the early evening chill.

Words that he knows the young man hears, even though he doesn’t respond.

Words he’d told him enough weeks ago that it might as well have been in another lifetime.

“It’s okay, 10k. Let it out. You don’t have to say anything. And don’t worry. I’m not gonna say anything, either.”

~*~*~

“10k. A word.”

The kid tenses, hesitantly glancing her way from his place next to the truck.

As the sun had started to set, Doc had pulled over, announcing a bathroom break before the darkness crept up on them. It was a good idea, and one that would allow Warren to sort out the last of many thoughts that had been eating away at the back of her mind. Her time spent in the bar had been well spent, her grief acknowledged, addressed, and then promptly filed away. She’s over those thoughts. She’s dealt with them. And now only one thing remains.

Cassandra sends him an encouraging smile, the kid passing what’s left of the cigarette over to Murphy. As he moves, his steps are reluctant, but he shuffles over obediently, anyway. With what he thinks is likely coming, Warren doesn’t blame him.

She’d seen what the kid had done back in Province Town. What he’d done to that bastard of a priest. She can’t fault him for that: she’d have done the same in his shoes. No, it’s those words of his, the ones he had uttered that night when they had been huddled alone in the back of the truck. His confession of complicity in the death that had torn her heart in two. _That_ had been what had hit her the hardest, and not just because they had made her doubt the kid’s place in their group. His admission of guilt had done something far worse: it had made her question Garnett’s last words.

She’d been kneeling in the grass, cradling a head of lax curls in her lap, those pained eyes drifting from the horizon to lock onto her own. He’d told her he loves her. He’d told her she should leave; should live. But he’d also told her something else. Something she could never have predicted.

_“Roberta, please… Look out for 10k… You need to protect him… Protect him from…”_

But that was all she had heard, Addy and Mack grabbing her, pulling her out of the path of some Zs, dragging her kicking and screaming out of the blighted compound and into the woods.

10k, the one who had appeared in their lives, suddenly and without warning; the one who no one really knows anything about, except for perhaps Garnett; the one who had confessed to killing the last good thing she had in this world, even if by omission. That’s what she can’t wrap her head around. That’s the final thought worming its way through her skull. That’s the only thing that remains to be acknowledged, addressed, and filed away.

10k had been one of the last things on Garnett’s mind.

And Warren has to know: does the kid deserve it?

So, she asks.

“What number was he?”

She doesn’t have to clarify, 10k easily understanding her question’s intent with no need for elaboration.

“Only been two I didn’t count. Other was my pa.”

The relief that floods through her isn’t a feeling she can relish, its aftertaste embittered by guilt. She should never have doubted him. Not 10k. Not her Rambo.

She pulls him close, looping her arms around his shoulders as she presses a quick kiss into that mess of fluffy black hair. “Time to head on back out, Rambo. Still a lot of road to go.”

It doesn’t take him long, the kid quickly sliding over Murphy’s lap to take his place in the middle of the back seats. His companions are swift in welcoming his return, Ten soon tightly sandwiched between Cassandra and Murphy. They both close ranks around him, sharing their warmth, eager to huddle together under a single blanket in hopes of drifting off to sleep together.

Because he’s returned to them, once more at their side. He’s returned to them all. And it’s where he belongs.

Warren settles down into the driver’s seat, returning Doc’s tired smile as he quips about those seated behind them.

“They’re looking like a pile of cats!”

And as she pulls away from the grassy verge they’re parked on, she doesn’t once glance in her mirrors. There is nothing for her back there. Instead, she keeps her eyes locked forward, nowhere for her to think about except the road to California.

* * *

[Full (slightly NSFW) image can be found here](https://i.imgur.com/XYyvVSe.jpg)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there we go. Took a little longer than I planned, but that's another story done. But, hey - at least I correctly guessed the chapter count this time!
> 
> Thanks for reading. Please let me know what you think!
> 
> Hope to see you all in the next story. Take care!
> 
> <3


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